


Nor Thorns Infest The Ground

by jane_potter



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alien anatomy, Bondage, D/s, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, LJ K/S Advent, M/M, Minor Violence, Mirror Universe, Non Consensual, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first time Spock has ever said he wants to be with Jim. This is possibly the first time Jim has ever touched somebody gently. So Spock's consent is conditional and Jim has to deal with the Vulcan's sick little touch kink, so what? Their happiness, is seems, is to be mutual if it is to be at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nor Thorns Infest The Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 LiveJournal K/S Advent Calendar. ...What? You really thought I was going to write Christmas-appropriate fluff? _Me_?

It was Yuletide evening. Jim Kirk wanted to know if he was going to have to choke a bitch, and, if so, which one.

Pity Marlena wasn't around any longer; she'd have been good for that. She'd been so ludicrously, arrogantly thrilled when she'd been made the captain's woman, his official and publicly claimed favourite. For someone who schemed as much as Marlena did, though, she didn't have the brains to think anything through. Five months into Jim's captaincy, Admiral Komack had dropped by on a routine inspection and promptly taken Jim's "favourite" for himself, exactly as Jim had known he would. And Marlena had looked _so_ shocked when Jim had laughed in her face after she demanded he challenge Komack for her.

Jim wasn't an idiot. He had seen the look in Marlena's eyes the moment he met her: not the usual calculation or boot-licking capitulation a superior officer was due, but an intense, half-manic hunger for power that promised to go far beyond a normal person's abstract but ultimately toothless craving. Jim had learned about that look in the gladiator pit on Tarsus, and he'd never forgotten it. His method for dealing with people who turned their eyes on him like that was the same as it always had been.

Slouched back in his chair, he kicked his heels up on his desk and braced his hands against the arms of the chair for a spine-cracking stretch that brought his entire body into a taut arch for several long seconds. His left elbow momentarily threatened to give under the weight of his body.

In a worse mood than before, Jim flopped back down into the chair. If he couldn't even hold a bridge for three seconds, he was going to find a knife between his ribs far sooner than he'd ever planned on. Looked like he was going to have to pay Bones a little visit soon, then, and ask exactly what it was about those "just scars" left over from the latest injury that was weakening his arm.

Maybe while he was down there, he'd claim his Yuletide present from Chapel. Other men could say what they liked about a woman with an eye patch, but Jim liked the way he could sneak up on someone missing half her peripheral vision. Bones would be furious, of course, but he knew better than to say no and Chapel understood politics very comfortably for a woman who had lost an eye due to them.

His door buzzed. "Enter," Jim snapped irritably. He didn't bother to reach for the shirt sitting abandoned on the corner of his desk, two feet away. He put a little smile on his mouth to ensure that whoever it was would be in fear for their health before they even entered the room.

The door whooshed open, and who should it reveal but the one person who could never fail to make Jim's day a little worse... Spock. Jim's smile got a little meaner.

Spock strode in and presented himself before the desk, arms folded behind his back, heels snapping together neatly. His dark eyes were fixed unflinchingly on Jim's face. "Captain."

Sprawled out at his desk, Jim didn't move except to raise his eyebrows insolently. "Commander," he replied, so that Spock knew he was being mocked. "What brings you here tonight? Another discipline issue in the labs? Need the big bad captain to come and spank your staff?"

Something about Spock's glacial face became even colder. "I have never had a discipline issue among my staff that I could not resolve immediately, Captain."

No doubt true, seeing as the first military note on Spock's Starfleet record was that of an incident in which a sixteen year-old Vulcan studying in Shi'kahr had dared to disprove the life's work of the Starfleet-approved physics instructor-- at a high profile scientific convention, no less-- and the second note was of an incident in which that same student had, two days later, killed the instructor in front of the rest of his horrified class. The part of those notes Jim found particularly enlightening was that the student, who had promptly been made the school's new physics instructor, had had freshly cracked ribs, evidence of a recently dislocated shoulder and two blackened eyes that the Starfleet inspector had dated to approximately a day before the convention.

You could push Spock, but unlike other Vulcans, who would just spread and _take_ it until the very end, you could only push him so far. Obviously it was his human blood and the influence of Amanda Grayson in his upbringing that had finally, _finally_ produced a Vulcan that lived even halfway up to the promise of their gloriously violent past, before they had gone all lame and peaceful.

"Well, what is it then?" Jim demanded. "I haven't got all night, Spock. Don't you have moss to go poke?"

"Negative, Captain. My experiments have all been put on hold for the night." Jim's eyes narrowed when he saw the slight twitch of Spock's jaw tightening. "It is the evening of Yuletide."

"Give the boy a cookie," drawled Jim poisonously. He swung his boots down from the desk and got to his feet, reaching for his shirt. "I was just about to go get my present from Chapel, actually, so if you don't mind..."

Spock didn't move. His dark, alien eyes bored into Jim, not blinking _nearly_ enough. "I have come to realise that as an officer and citizen of the Terran Empire, it is my duty to obey the Empire's customs," he said stiffly, as if each word _hurt_.

At the realisation that he was seeing his stubborn, enormously proud first officer actually voluntarily abasing himself, Jim couldn't help the swell of glee inside him, however wildly unexpected the situation was.

"Therefore," Spock continued, "it is my intention to give you the gift you are owed, Captain."

But _that_ had come from nowhere, and for a moment Jim wasn't sure he'd just heard Spock right. Without thinking, his hand went instantly to the knife in his sash. He'd heard too many attempted assassinations start with a line like that. Spock, however, did not move.

"Is that right," said Jim after a wary moment, sneering. "Just what kind of gift is it, then?"

"Myself, Captain," Spock said very quietly. "I intend to present you with myself, for whatever use you should see necessary this evening."

Jim opened his mouth, closed it with a snap, and then started to laugh. Anyone else would have missed it, but oh, no, not Jim. He saw Spock flinch back from the mockery, knew Spock well enough to see something in his eyes go shuttered and dead at the rejection of whatever pathetic offer he thought he was making.

Jim sat down on the edge of his desk with a thud, still whooping raucously. He was overdoing it, he knew, but he just couldn't help it. He knew Spock would never give him another chance like it, not after how Jim was reacting. But really, what had Spock _expected_ , putting himself out there like that?  
Gradually, Jim calmed. Perched on the edge of the desk, he hunched over with his elbows on his knees and grinned carnivorously at his rigid first officer. Spock hadn't moved an inch, but his jaw was so tight Jim could see the muscles straining in it.  
"No, see, Spock, that's not how it works," he taunted, thoroughly enjoying every ounce of humiliation he could grind out of the Vulcan. Oh, Jim had Spock's number _now_ , and Spock was _never_ going to live it down. Who'd have thought a Vulcan would ever do something so monumentally stupid? "You don't get to tell me when I can have you. You're mine, and I can have you _whenever_ and _however_ I want. I've _already_ had you, in point of fact. I'll do it again in the future."

Jim slid off the desk and prowled towards Spock, naked to the waist and smiling ferally. Beneath the long sleeves of the blue uniform Spock obviously liked to believe gave him any real power at all, Jim could see Spock's forearms flex as he tightened the fists behind his back. Viciously, Jim continued, "There's nothing you can do about it. You don't get a choice-- you _especially_ don't get a choice, Spock of Vulcan."

The expression in Spock's eyes was fucking _glorious_. They had gone molten with rage, brimming with whatever force had once driven the formerly pacifistic son of a pacifistic species to castrate, disembowel and partially skin alive the brutal physics instructor that had struck him one too many times.

Jim fucking _lived_ for the moments that force came out to play. Every fibre in his body responded to the expression like iron filings to a magnet. He could feel his breath shortening with anticipation. His entire being tuned and tightened and honed in on Spock, ready to throw the first punch at a second's notice, the taunt of _come on, come on,_ give _it to me_ on the tip of his tongue.

And then Spock-- relaxed. The rage went out of his eyes as quickly as it had come, no more than a brief flash that left him even more calm and controlled in its wake.

Jim wanted to scream with frustration, and he knew it showed as something ugly on his face.

"No, Captain," Spock said, as infuriatingly unafraid as ever. "I am afraid you have misunderstood me. I am not attempting to pre-empt or forestall the next occasion on which you should choose to assert your rank over me."

Jim's lip curled. Assert his rank, was _that_ what Spock called it? He opened his mouth, only to be stopped dead by Spock's next words.

"I am presenting myself to you because I _wish_ to."

Astonished, Jim could only stare.

"I will submit willingly and without protest," Spock continued, not meek but so _peaceful_ about it that Jim wanted to shake him. "I will not attempt to fight any treatment you should desire to subject me to."

But that-- _that_ was new.

Slowly, Jim took a step back from Spock to study him better. Spock gazed back at him, blinking calmly every now and again. Eyes narrowed in thought, Jim circled Spock once and then again, examining him from every angle possible and watching for a single flicker of unease, _anything_ to suggest that Spock didn't quite mean what he'd said. But... nothing. Spock didn't even try to follow Jim with his eyes.

Spock had never even been good at _obedient_ , let alone _submissive_. He questioned Jim's orders on the bridge and took all the punishment for it without a flinch, never learning the actual lesson, which told Jim that Amanda Grayson probably had the same ideas about child rearing that Winona did. Spock heeded the letter of Jim's commands and not the spirit. He could exploit every loophole in existence to get out of following orders, which was great when Jim needed a way to duck around the admiralty but fucking annoying when Spock decided to do the same to Jim.

That meant that when Jim decided to take Spock to bed, Spock fought him every step of the way. Jim had to jolt him with an agoniser, kick him to the floor, bind his arms and cut off his uniform just to get what he should have been given. Nothing in the world (that Jim had yet tested) could stop Spock from randomly jerking or twisting his body to try to dislodge Jim in a moment of instability. When it was over, Spock simply picked up the remains of his uniform and went to his quarters through their shared bathroom without a word, or used the hall if Jim was in a particularly bad mood and made him.

The first time, Jim had done it to make sure the Vulcan golden boy knew that things weren't going to be any different under Jim than Pike, and that nobody gave a damn who his alien daddy was. After that, Jim had realised that it wasn't a matter of establishing dominance just once: it was all he could do to keep a hold of Spock no matter how many times he repeated the lesson. He had taken hold of the bull's horns without realising that Pike's definition of submissive-- or, rather, Pike's methods of ensuring submission-- and everybody else's were drastically, massively different.

"Anything I want to do to you," Jim repeated, keeping his voice cold. He didn't believe Spock for a--

No. He _shouldn't_ have believed Spock for a second, _Vulcans do not lie_ bullshit or not. But there was half a heartbeat, hidden deep beneath everything else, in which Jim didn't think twice about whether Spock was telling him the truth.

"Affirmative."

"And you won't fight it. Not at all," he added sharply. "No loopholes, no prevarication, no passive-aggressive resistance bullshit. You'll do what I want, whatever I want."

If Spock was unsettled by the way Jim was pushing into his precious personal space, he didn't show it. All he said, without hesitation, was, "Affirmative."

Jim still didn't buy it. For once, he needed to buy time to think, to _out_ think his opponent, and _damn_ Spock for being the only person in the world who could do that to him. "Anything," he said again, flatly.

"Yes, Captain."

 _Yes, Captain; no, Captain; myself, Captain_ , and all in that even, matter of fact tone where anybody else would have been trying to play Jim's well-known weakness for the title against him. Really, though, was that a surprise? Of all the people on the Enterprise, Spock was the one Jim could count on not to try to sleep his way into favour. He'd be shit at it, for starters, and Spock had a realistic grasp of his own abilities. And he didn't have the balls to try for a captaincy of his own, anyway. Didn't have balls at all, actually.

That clinched it, then. It was a bluff. Spock had to be the world's worst poker player to think Jim wouldn't call it, and call it all the way. "Take off your clothes."

Jim had seen a lot of talented people strip for him, some of them good enough to get him hard in the time it took to remove a bra and a pair of panties. But as he sat on his desk and watched his lanky, humourless, bowl-cut science officer start pulling off his uniform one pragmatic piece at a time, Jim was sure he'd never seen anything hotter. Because it was _Spock_ \-- Spock, who never gave even a farce of consent, who defied Jim at every possible turn, who, guaranteed, had never done this for _anyone_ before. Ever.

Who was doing it because he claimed he _wanted_ to, for some fucking reason, and yeah, better believe Jim was going to pry the answer for that one out of him.

Unsurprisingly, Spock started to fold his science blues until Jim jerked his head sharply. "Drop it," Jim ordered, halfway expecting to be ignored. But the shirt landed on the deck immediately, followed several seconds later by Spock's blacks. Jim let his grin grow wider, wolfish, at the sight of the Vulcan's broad, hirsute chest and arms.

The silver bracelets around Spock's wrists glistened in the 50% lighting. They were the reason Spock had opted for the long-sleeved uniform option, and were normally hidden from sight. Spock had even developed a compulsion of tugging down his cuffs when he was very, very stressed.

"Turn around," Jim ordered, just because he could. Stone-faced, Spock did so in the unsexiest way possible. Jim rolled his eyes but took the opportunity to study the weirdly recessed ridge of Spock's spinal cord, something he had only ever seen before while trying to pin Spock down on the mattress. He was pleased to note that Spock hadn't managed to get rid of the burn scar from Cirrus II, either. "Pants, now."

"Would it not be more efficient to remove my boots first?"

"No. Shut up and drop 'em."

And, still facing away from Jim, he _did_. Jim nearly started bouncing in glee. This was the best fucking Yuletide present he'd ever gotten. Whenever Spock reached the limits of how far he was willing to go for this stupid game of his, it was just going to make it that much easier for Jim to get him pinned and teach him why it was a phenomenally stupid idea to play Bait The Captain.

"Bend over. Boots." The leer carried into Jim's voice when he added, "Take your time."

In addition to the mandatory Starfleet repertoire of fighting styles, Spock practised some obscure and dying form of pacifistic, defensive Vulcan martial arts. Jim had seen him doing stretches in the gym that were not quite humanly possible, so he knew it was no problem for Spock to touch his toes to get his boot clasps. For that matter, it was probably no problem for Spock to fold himself in half and suck his own dick. Huh-- mental note for later. But at the moment, Jim was more engrossed by the hard muscle of Spock's ass flexing and dimpling under the sleek, skin-tight standard issue briefs.

Anybody who wasn't in good enough shape to look good in them wasn't fit for Starfleet. Spock happened to look _fantastic_ with the shiny black material clinging to his asscheeks, and that was without even considering the fact that he was bent over with his pants around his ankles.

"Fuck yeah, baby," Jim purred, intending to milk the chance for all it was worth. " _Work_ it, come on..."

Spock pulled his boots off and set them aside. "May I also remove my socks, Captain?" he inquired, the silkiest edge of insolence in his voice.

"Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you. And yes, take them off, fuck. Socks are not sexy, Spock. Do I have to tell you everything?"

Jim couldn't see Spock's face when he replied, "I only wish to provide you with the most satisfactory gift experience possible."

Jim snorted. "Yeah, right. Stand up, turn around."

Boots and socks set aside, Spock turned to face him once more. There was a very faint green flush on his face. Jim knew better than to think it was anything but gravity having dragged the blood to his head. Still, the magnification of Spock's alien skin tone made his cock perk up a little more.

Jim jumped lightly off the desk and strolled around behind Spock. "Spread 'em, shoulder width." Before Spock had time to react, he was already kicking Spock's legs farther apart, insinuating his knee between them and pressing in with his thigh. Plastering himself right up against the Vulcan's back without so much as a warning, Jim reached around Spock's body and slid a hand down the hard plane of his stomach. Spock had gone tense before Jim's fingers were even low enough to curl inwards and press through the fabric of his underwear at the small opening behind Spock's flat pubic bone. Jim kept the pressure just shy of painful and smiled against Spock's shoulder so that the Vulcan could feel it.

"No wonder you haven't tried to take the captaincy from me," he whispered into Spock's ear. "A real man would."

Jim could just imagine that the Academy had been hell for an alien who looked like he had a third hole to fuck, except that it was physically far, far too small. He imagined that wouldn't have stopped some people from trying, either. Spock had always before defended himself against such insults, claiming that there was absolutely nothing unmasculine about his sheathed genitals, which were completely normal for Vulcan males. This time, he tensed but said nothing.

"Geeze. Did I break you or something?" Jim pressed his fingers a little harder, and-- ah. Spock rose up onto his toes just slightly.

"Negative, Captain," Spock replied, his voice infuriatingly neutral.

Jim grabbed the waistband of Spock's briefs, jerked them down, and struck him with the palm and back of his hand in quick succession. The _crack_ of his hand meeting flesh was very loud in the empty room. Bright green marks appeared a moment later.

"Take those off and get on the bed," Jim ordered harshly. "Face down."

 _Fight me, fight me, fight_ \--

Silently, Spock let the briefs fall the rest of the way down his gangly legs and stepped out of them. Jim didn't realise he was holding his breath until he found himself staring dumbly at the Vulcan laying still and face down in the centre of his bed, head turned to face the wall, arms straight by his sides.

Fuck. Spock actually wasn't kidding. For whatever stupid reason, he was going to go through with it for real. He was actually going to let Jim--

And suddenly, Jim wasn't sure he wanted to push Spock any more. There was something very wrong about the idea of his first officer just _capitulating_ , let alone out of the blue like this. Every warning sense Jim had was jangling like an alarm bell. People, even if they were Spock, didn't just turn about face and bow down without getting _something_ out of it.

The next moment, Jim's knees were digging hard into Spock back and his knife was at Spock's throat. "What's this about, Spock?" he demanded, an uncontrolled tremor of rage in his voice. Spock-- _Spock_ betraying him-- "And let me tell you, whatever you come up with, it better be good and it better be _fast_."

Spock's voice was slightly muffled by the pillow Jim's free hand was pushing his head into. Nonetheless, he lay very, very still. "It is Yuletide, Captain."

" _Bullshit_. You didn't care at Saturnalia." Jim paused for a moment, then asked incredulously, "Is that what this is about? Making up for that debacle?"

"You may assume so, yes."

In a heartbeat Jim's knife was pressing against Spock's throat even harder. "That's not a _yes_ ," he snarled. "Who else is in this with you?"

"Nobody, Captain. This is not an assassination attempt. I have already explained to you that I have no desire to captain the _Enterprise_. It would significantly reduce the amount of time I have to attend the science laboratories."

Jim's whole body was buzzing with tension. Crouched on Spock's back like some kind of wild cat, he bared his teeth and felt the absurd desire for a set of claws he could sink into the muscle of Spock's shoulder, sheathing them in Spock's skin over and over until he had wrung some answers out of the Vulcan. "Then _why_?" he hissed, and with a jerk of his wrist there was a dark green line of blood running down the blade of his knife.

Spock's voice was, if anything, even more perfectly controlled. "It is Yuletide, Captain."

With the sound of his own breath panting loudly in his ears, Jim experienced a moment of ringing clarity. He was kneeling over a prone and submissive Spock, in bed, with his cock fully hard in his pants and not doing anything about it. He was Jim fucking _Kirk_. What was a bit of risk to him? Like he'd ever stopped himself from fucking a potential assassin before, whether prior to, after or goddamn _during_ the attempt.

Plus-- Spock. Submissive.

 _Anything_.

It took a bit of effort to unlock the fist he had been gripping Spock's hair with. Aware that his grin was more than a touch manic, Jim bounced back off the bed and let Spock up. "Turn over."

Blood was still running bright from the hair-thin cut over Spock's jugular, but the Vulcan was as bland-faced as ever. On his back, he looked up at Jim and pressed the metal bands on his wrists together with a clink, offering them up.

Jim gestured with the knife, backing up two steps further. "No. Hands on your chest."

Spock's eyebrows dipped slightly in confusion, but he placed his palms flat on either side of his ribs.

"Run 'em down," Jim said, rough voiced. He was transfixed as much by the slide of Spock's over-sensitive fingers down his stomach as by the fact that Spock was still _obeying him_. "Up again. Yeah, touch yourself."

Spock's fingers stalled for a moment, then went on to make vague motions at his pectorals.

"No. Grab your nipples, Spock. Pinch them. _Harder_. You like that?"

"Not particularly."

"Run your hands down yourself again, Spock. Lower, you bastard. You know what I want. Your nipples, the other ones. Run your fingers around 'em. Like you mean it, Spock." Not removing his eyes from the picture laid out before him, Jim sat down on the foot of the bed. "Yeah, baby. Make it feel so good. I know you like that."

The nipples on Spock's abdomen were smaller and darker than the ones on his pectorals, and there were six of them, three each in a line on either side of his navel. The DNA for them might have been eliminated from his genome by a good geneticist, the kind Sarek of Vulcan could afford, but it had been a little too late for that after a very disgraced Sarek had spent his pon farr locked in a room with the daughter of a senator in current disfavour with the Emperor. By the time Sarek had been permitted to flee back to Vulcan with his tail between his legs and remind the Elders all about what happened to misbehaving Vulcans, Amanda's pregnancy had been confirmed and thus their automatic marriage, by Vulcan law, had been in place for two weeks. Nobody had been happy about that one, least of all Amanda, but to the world's surprise Sarek and Lady Amanda had gone on to make themselves the most ruthless couple in Vulcan politics, and in a number of Terran circles too. Jim's mother had lost two hundred credits betting that Amanda would have an abortion and a knife between Sarek's eyes within three weeks.

When Jim had discovered that Spock had inherited that particular Vulcan characteristic from his father (men that nursed the babies, what the _fuck_ ) he had made security forcibly incapacitate Spock and drag him down to sickbay in the middle of alpha shift to have Bones surgically remove the layer of bioplast Spock had had grafted over his abdomen. After over twenty years hidden beneath the bioplast, his teats were _sensitive_.

Spock was starting to look faintly uncomfortable, but better yet was the green stain rising in his eartips. Still, his body was about as wooden as a board and his technique frankly wasn't much better. Jim decided to show Spock how it was done before his dick decided it wasn't interested in a compliant fuck after all.

"Spread 'em. Against the headboard."

The expression in Spock's eyes was almost relief, which just wouldn't do. Jim would correct him of that judgement error soon enough. The moment Spock had touched the bracelets against the metal bars of the headboard, Jim pressed the single button on a tiny device clipped to his sash. Powerful magnets in the bracelets kicked in instantly, sending a jolt down Spock's arms.

The bands had been locked around Spock's wrists about five seconds after he had signed the Starfleet contract seven years ago, and they hadn't come off since. After all, Starfleet was interested in Spock precisely _because_ he had proven to be so volatile. What was the sense in putting a superhumanly strong alien on the bridge of a starship-- in a senior position, no less-- without some kind of safeguard measure in place?

Without removing his sash, Jim unbuttoned his pants and shed them, kicking them off at the same time as his boots. His socks followed a moment later, leaving him naked but for the gold sash around his hips. There was a reason sashes, not belts, were part of the uniform. One word: versatility. It was an absolute bitch to try to hogtie someone with a polymer belt (though it could be done).

Straps, in general, were the tools of specialists; for most other kinds of torture, an agoniser and knife worked just fine-- or, barring that, a phaser with a slightly jimmied focus lens that could be used to deliver more localised electric shocks. Agonisers, after all, were specifically designed so that it took a _lot_ of work to kill somebody with one. Hacked electronics brought a whole new level of fear into the game.

What to do with Spock, then. Contemplating his first officer, Jim absently brushed the dial on the hilt of his knife with his thumb. A slight backwash of heat struck his knuckles as the blood on the blade dried to dust and disintegrated away. Meanwhile, Jim was watching Spock, whose eyes had flown to the knife-- and who, despite that, hadn't drawn his legs up into a defensive position from which he could deliver a hell of a kick. Who just _sat_ there.

Fuck. He still wasn't sure he'd processed the idea yet. Spock. Submissive. _Why_?

Who the fuck cared why?

Thing was, Jim's dick liked the idea. Liked it so much, in fact, that he didn't even need to take a taste to know he'd want it again. And again. Maybe because this, whatever the fuck it was, wasn't something he could take by force. Spock had to... give it to him. Willingly. Which meant that Jim suddenly found himself faced with a treat he couldn't have whenever he wanted.

A treat someone else had control over.

A smile slid over Jim's face, tissue-paper thin, as he ambled towards Spock, his entire bearing suddenly easy-going and relaxed. He would have to be, in order to pull this off.

If this was what happened when Spock _wanted_ to be there, then Jim wouldn't just give him something he'd want more of. He would give Spock something he'd _love_.

His eyes hooded and smouldering like those of a sleepy tiger, Jim practically oozed onto the bed, slinging a leg across Spock's hips and straddling him expertly. He placed his hands on Spock's chest so that the left one was directly over the thrumming Vulcan heart and lowered himself down, spine curving sinuously until they were pressed chest to chest, his hands trapped between them. Mere inches separating their faces, Jim looked into Spock's ink-black eyes and smiled a smile that had once made Gary's knees actually buckle (right before Jim stabbed him in the throat).

"You and me," he whispered hotly, "we're gonna have some fun."

Delicately, Jim nuzzled the tip of his nose against the fine, razor-cut hairs behind Spock's ear. His tongue darted out to taste the sensitive flesh-- _just a lick; easy, Jim_. "Feel free to scream."

He didn't give Spock a chance to reply, quickly sealing his lips over Spock's in a heated kiss. His tongue had barely touched Spock's lips before Jim realised he had overdone it. Spock had gone rigid beneath him, expecting... well, the usual, duh. But, against the voice inside that urged him to bite down and savage Spock's mouth, Jim gentled, drawing back until they were connected only by the lightest press of mouths. Exhaling warmly against Spock's mouth and trying to pretend that he wanted nothing more than to be there, doing what he was doing, Jim did nothing more than nip very gently at Spock's lower lip a few times and then pull back.

Baffled. Now that was a good look on the Vulcan.

Not wanting Spock to see the triumph in his eyes, Jim leaned in again, licking and leaving little lipping kisses along Spock's jaw. Spock's sleek goatee scraped against his cheek, but nowhere near as roughly as human hair should have. More of that textureless, smooth, easily-ventilated Vulcan hair, then? Fucking bizarre. He'd never been close enough to Spock's mouth before-- when it wasn't trying to bite him, that was-- to notice it.

Beneath him, Spock's muscles were still as rigid and unmoved as tritanium. Undeterred, Jim made a little humming sound in the back of his throat and started to work his way down Spock's neck, kissing and nuzzling. Slowly, his palms started to stroke gentle circles on the Vulcan's chest, fingertips caressing every dip and bump of his ribs.

 _Easy. Easy_. At least his cock hadn't yet got the message about how uninteresting this was. Pressed up against the hot flesh of Spock's belly, it seemed happy enough to stay hard and ready. Jim determinedly shoved away the vague, shuddery questions about what exactly that might say about him.

Spock had never made a secret of the fact that he didn't get off on pain, giving or receiving. All the times Jim had fucked him before, inflicting pain had been the fastest and easiest way to get a good, furious writhe out of him. If anything, torture bothered Spock an indecent amount for an officer of the Empire. He couldn't even objectively respect the delivery of a particularly nice knife wound. Half human or not, there was something seriously wrong with Spock.

So all the ways Jim would have entertained a normal partner were out the window. Spock was Vulcan. Spock was... _peaceful_ and shit. Jim was faintly disgusted by trying to imagine all the timid, tedious sex Spock must have had with his pacifistic Vulcan fiancée before signing on with Starfleet.

Spock had a fiancée, right? He must, all Vulcans did. Arranging marriages from birth, what horseshit. A person's political status could have crashed and burned by the time it was consummated. But they had the set up for when pon farr kicked in, because they couldn't even man up enough to take what they needed when their lives depended on it, which-- wow. Just _wow_. Jim hadn't made up his mind whether or not he was going to let Spock go back to his whore on Vulcan when the time came. There would always be some dumb young ensign that needed punishing. Decisions, decisions. Later.

If Spock wanted boring, then he was going to get the boring vanilla fuck of his life.

With almost painful slowness, Jim worked his way down Spock's body, mouth and hands trailing across everything he could reach. It wasn't even a process he could just rush though and have done with. He was patience fucking _personified_. He sucked where he would have normally bitten, stroked where he would have scratched, caressed where he would have bruised... and, bit by bit, Spock melted.

By the time Jim's mouth had reached his navel and Jim's hands slipped underneath to massage Spock's muscular asscheeks (and shit, how hard was it to resist the temptation to suddenly shove two fingers up there and give the bastard the shock of his life-- the look on his face, it would be wet-dream material), Spock was full-out flushed. Fifteen long, wet, relentless minutes later, as Jim left his teats swollen and dripping with saliva and started to work his way back up, the Vulcan had been reduced to gasping with open-mouthed fervour.

Straddling Spock's thighs, Jim sat up to observe his work. He was shocked that it had worked so fast-- without him even laying a hand on Spock's dick!-- but he _liked_ what he saw spread out before him like some kind of obscene banquet. Anybody could be laid out on his bed, especially with the restraints in place. Very few people had ever _sprawled_ on it, let alone in lax pleasure. Jim tried not to look too openly satisfied, as Spock had managed to fight his eyes open far enough to stare up at Jim with evident shock.

"I... do not understand," he said-- _panted_ , more like. Jim was hard pressed not to wriggle with delight. "Do you not intend to-- satisfy yourself with--"

Smiling with every ounce of seductive charm he could, Jim laid a single finger across Spock's lips. The Vulcan stilled and went silent immediately.

 _Alien biology, gotta love it_. "You dirty, kinky fuck," Jim said, and the unexpectedly nasty edge to it made Spock's eyes widen. "All that bullshit about how a touch telepath needs his precious personal space, can't be pawed at, _noooo_ , and you get _off_ on it. You _like_ being touched."

Something flickered in Spock's eyes, a defensive shield trying to drag itself above the arousal. Jim swooped in and stifled it with a long, slow suck on the pinna of Spock's left ear, moaning pornographically in the back of his throat. A shudder ran the length of Spock's entire body and he went limp again.

God, that was fucked up. On second thought, maybe Amanda Grayson hadn't raised her son so well after all. What had she _done_ to him that he thought having someone's hands all over him was... _nice_?

Never mind. He would play Spock's sick little kink. "Don't even worry about it," he purred. "Just lay back and let me steer you 'round the curves. You're in good hands." The line was atrocious, but he figured it would work, since nobody ever bothered wasting pick-up lines on a Vulcan.

His face was starting to hurt from all the smiling he'd done. Taking care to rub against Spock's swollen teats on the way past, Jim shimmied up his body and seated himself on Spock's chest so that he could lean down to get at Spock's hands. At the first touch of his mouth on a curled thumb, Spock drew a sharp breath. Jim braced himself on the headboard and took two long fingers into his mouth.

Ludicrously careful with his teeth, he sealed his lips around them and suckled hard, pressed them against the roof of his mouth, rolled his tongue against them and fucked it between them in short, stabbing strokes. Recalling a cheap Orion porn holo he'd seen once, he let a huge gob of drool drip from his mouth and watched it run slowly across Spock's trembling, twitching palm and down his rust-veined wrist. Spock shut his eyes tightly and _moaned_.

"S'that good for you?" Jim asked, a little breathless despite himself. "This what you need, Spock? Poor baby. How long's it been since anybody took such good care of you, huh?"

Spock was shaking his head very faintly.

" _Never_ , is that it?" prodded Jim in delight, smearing the saliva across Spock's palm and gaining another muffled moan for it. He was absolutely astounded at the level of vulnerability he could pry from the Vulcan. "Never? M'gonna take care of you, Spock. Gonna make it so good for you."

Mumbling vague promises beneath his breath, he went down on Spock's other hand. It was as filthy, wet and enthusiastic a blow job as he had ever given anything. Hell, from what he knew about Vulcan physiology (though in a capacity related to torture, not sex), it should have had Spock coming in his pants, were he wearing any. He could feel the muscles of Spock's arms shaking helplessly.

Good, that was good. Jim reached back behind himself for Spock's erection, thinking that from the way he was gasping, it probably wouldn't take more than a stroke or two to finish him. Vulcans could come multiple times in a row; he would get Spock off once to loosen him up nicely before fucking him so that maybe Jim could have at least a _little_ fun with--

Jim bolted up straight, his eyes blazing. Utterly infuriated, he exploded, " _What_ is _this_?"

In his hand, the Vulcan's cock lay limp and half hard, only partially extended from its sheath. There was barely a smear of fluid on it, let alone the sopping deluge Jim had imagined. Lubricant production was equivalent to arousal, he remembered that much.

Abandoning all pretence of sweetness, Jim glowered down at Spock. "Seriously, Spock, what the _hell_. If you're impotent or some shit, now would be a better time to tell me you're just too disgusted by me to get it up, instead."

"Somehow I cannot picture that calming your temper," Spock said, still somewhat breathlessly.

"No, but I'd go to Bones for drugs instead of cutting this useless thing off," snarled Jim. He gave Spock's dick a jerk far more painful than pleasurable. "What do I have to do to make you happy, Spock? Cuddle you and coo love songs in your ear?"

"That would be illogical."

Jim felt himself shaking with frustration, and was too far gone to care how weak that lack of control looked. All that work-- all that time he'd just spent-- for _nothing_? Showed just how useful it was to do something nice for somebody, even if it was partly so _he_ could get something out of it, too. Of course Jim wanted something out of it; he wasn't mentally ill. But there was the easy way and the hard way of getting things, and he'd picked he easy way for Spock, humiliated himself in doing so, and now it turned out he might as well have not bothered, because trying to treat Spock like that was doing fuck-all for Jim and Spock didn't even _care_.

"What," he demanded, humiliated and angry beyond belief, "is your problem, Spock? What does it take to get you off?"

Beneath him, the Vulcan's body shifting as he spread his legs wider, obviously trying to draw Jim's attention. "Captain, I do not understand why you are concerned with my enjoyment of this process. My lack of arousal has never been an obstacle for you before."

"Answer the question," Jim growled.

"Is this because I altered the balance of our relationship by attempting to initiate a sexual encounter myself?"

"We don't have a relationship."

"We relate to one another on a daily basis; there is a relationship."

" _Answer_ the goddamn _question_ , Commander!"

"I cannot."

Jim's white-knuckled fist was already halfway through the swing when Spock's hurried voice stopped him dead:

"I cannot physically become aroused at this point."

"At this point," Jim repeated slowly, without lowering his fist. "Normally, you could."

The green flush in Spock's cheeks was as bright as ever. Humiliated as he was, Jim couldn't even enjoy Spock's obvious discomfort. "Could and would be. I-- did not expect you to be... this considerate."

"Then why not?"

Spock's lips made a thin, tight line before he replied quietly. "I injected myself with a four-hour dose of general anaesthetic before coming here. The stimulus perception of my dermal nervous tissue has been dulled by 86.4 percent."

And Jim-- Jim, who had built his career on being the fastest, most opportunistic person to exploit weakness in his peers and rivals-- was speechless. Not about the drugs, no; that was practically common sense, and a good sight more deceptive than Spock had ever shown signs of being. "You mean you-- you couldn't even _feel_ what I was doing to you?"

"Largely, no." Spock had the gall to lift his chin and look Jim straight in the eye. "Based on our previous encounters, I have concluded that you gain a great deal of your sexual satisfaction from the infliction of pain coupled with the assertion of your dominance over others. I saw no reason I should suffer unnecessarily when giving you this gift. You, however, failed to act according to logical parameters."

Jim scoffed. "And this surprises you _how_?"

Spock twitched an eyebrow disdainfully. "True. It was an error in my thinking to assume you would react in a reasonable or sane manner."

Jim buried his fist in the pillow inches from Spock's ear, leaning down to hiss, "You're one to talk about sane-- you, bringing your sicko touch kink and your 'gift' to me like it's nothing out of the ordinary. What's the logic behind that?"

Utterly unruffled, Spock said, "It is Yuletide. I wished to make you... 'happy'." He met Jim's sneer with the cold, ruthlessly calculating eyes that reminded Jim, yet again, just why _this_ Vulcan in particular had made it so far in the Empire. "I have calculated that you are 6.7 times more likely to take my observations into consideration when in a good mood. Your reaction of what one might almost deem care or _compassion_ , however, begs for an explanation."

 _Shit_. Of course Spock wouldn't let that slide.

Jim smiled with too many teeth and stroked a hand down Spock's chest in a mockery of affection. "I wanted to make you _happy_ ," he mocked in return. "I always knew all you needed was one good lay to show you how a real human fucks. You'd have come running back to me begging for more."

Spock's dark eyes were glinting. "Did you enjoy my voluntary submission, Captain? Perhaps you find yourself less able to enforce submission in your partners these days... or perhaps it was my _willingness_ which aroused you."

Jim dug his fingernails deep into Spock's pectoral, infuriated by the insinuation. "I wasn't the one moaning for a _kiss_ , Spock. Did you enjoy me not hurting you?" he snarled, shoving his face in close to Spock's.

Almost nose to nose, they held out a simmering stare for several long, dangerous moments. Jim was almost-- almost-- certain it had to end in blood. When the tension finally eased, however, it wasn't because one of them had backed down.

They were the captain and executive officer of the Terran Empire's imperial flagship, the _ISS Enterprise_. They were two of the most powerful men in Starfleet and scions of their respective planets. They understood just how to reach a mutually beneficial agreement when it was staring them in the face.

"I'm not like Chekov, Spock," Jim said. Very gently, he trailed his fingertips through the dark hair on Spock's chest. "I don't like cutting people open just to see the muscles twitch." He leaned down to breathe in Spock's ear. "When I cut you, I want to know you're feeling every second of it, and have you twisting and straining in useless fury underneath me."

To the casual observer, Spock's voice was positively disinterested. To Jim, his Vulcan-- _his_ fucking Vulcan-- was hot with lust and frigid with brutal political savvy at the same time. "I accept the continuation of your sexual proclivities as inevitable and will react to them in whatever manner you desire, provided my own desires are also met in an equally satisfactory manner, at the time and place I choose. You will, of course, treat my affairs with the utmost of discretion in order to compensate for the much lower frequency of occasions on which my desires are attended."

"Like I want anybody knowing I'd go so soft as to... _cuddle_ you." Jim sniffed and changed the subject. "Four hour dose, huh?" he said, unwinding down onto Spock's chest once more. "Well, it's only seventeen-hundred. Three hours left of Yuletide after that. Since, you know-- this is a _gift_."

His tone made very clear just what he thought of _that_. Professionally motivated or not, there was something soppy and sentimental about providing complete submission as a Yuletide gift. And yet... Jim knew with horrible certainty that he wouldn't have betrayed Spock's moment of vulnerability to anybody even if their deal hadn't prevented it.

Because it was leverage, of course. There was no reason to share that leverage with others, none. It was a hand to hold over his Vulcan and nobody got to do that but Jim.

"Thirty-eight minutes have elapsed since I took the injection," Spock said. "Based on the anaesthesia's rate of action so far, I estimate a full recovery time of no more than two hours and fifty-six minutes."

"Great, fine, whatever," muttered Jim, suddenly moody.

Some time during their conversation, his cock had finally ceased to be interested in the proceedings, though Spock's was still at a determined half-mast. He rolled off of Spock and made himself comfortable on the mattress beside the Vulcan. Then, on second thought, Jim slung a leg over Spock's and arranged himself halfway on top of the Vulcan's chest. Muscle and hair and bones and hot, hot skin...

Because no way in hell did Jim intend to let Spock out of those restraints before he'd been fucked good and hard. Who knew if Spock would change his mind in the interim? And part of the deal still involved Spock wanting to come back voluntarily. Their happiness, it seemed, was to be mutual if it was to be at all.

"Captain?" Spock said, sounding nothing short of astonished. "Do you intend to... _co-sleep_?"

Jim shifted restlessly, offended by the insinuation that he was some kind of pervert like Spock. "I'm taking a nap," he snapped. "You just happen to be in my bed. Deal with it."

Spock's voice was suspiciously bland when he agreed, "Of course, Captain."

For one horrible moment, Jim wondered what Spock knew. Then he shook himself and forced the vulnerability away.

"Computer: lights to ten percent," he called, settling himself more comfortably against the Vulcan's freakishly hot body. It wasn't possible that Spock was using telepathy on Jim, not even with both of them naked and touching skin everywhere. Vulcans were conditioned from childhood to never, _ever_ dare to attempt mental contact with a human unless they were ordered to, a compulsion that was so strong Jim had seen the handful of pathetic rebels Vulcan turned out attempt to physically torture information out of a captive rather than using a mind meld.

No, Jim decided. There was no way Spock knew he was the only person Jim would ever consider co-sleeping with, even for only a few hours.

"Yuletide blessings, Captain," Spock said quietly, his voice disembodied in the dark.

"Bless me again when I'm through with you," Jim muttered back, and pulled the covers over them both.

"I shall," Spock murmured, sounding positively smug. Beneath Jim's cheek, something in Spock's broad chest rumbled, low and steady. A purr? Was he _purring_?

For one short moment, Jim wanted to be outraged. Pride and professionalism demanded that he get up and show his goddamn first officer just what dealing with James T. Kirk really meant. Then pride and professionalism took a back seat to comfort and security and the shocking revelation that Spock's purr was possibly the most soothing thing Jim had ever experienced. Wide-eyed in the dark, Jim pressed his cheek more closely to Spock's ribcage and lay very, very still as the vibration and warmth of the sound sank in right down to his bones.

Some people said that wishes made on Yuletide came true within the next year. Jim had scoffed at the idea for over a decade. But last year-- last year when he'd been drunk and on pain meds and too full of stab wounds to walk, he'd finally given in and wished for the first stupid thing that had come to mind: to finally find out what co-sleeping was like... to see if the reality lived up to the vague concept that put a sweet, sick ache in Jim's chest whenever he thought about it.

There were seven hours of Yuletide left. He might have to spend some time thinking about this year's wish.


End file.
